19
by Argentum-LS
Summary: On a dark night, Richie Ryan was shot and killed. He made it ten days before needing to talk to someone, anyone, about what happened. With Duncan gone and Tessa dead, there's only one person left.


_A/N: Written for TigerLily for the My Old Fandom exchange. This story is set between the episodes "The Darkness" and "Eye for an Eye." As always, questions, comment, squee, and concrit are always welcome._

 **19**

by Argentum_LS

Richie had sworn to his 10th grade English teacher that he would rather die than voluntarily step into a bookstore. He wondered what she'd say now if she knew that dying was what compelled him to walk into this bookstore.

Trying to look like the kind of guy whose interest in books extended past _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ , Richie strode across the floor, ignoring the few patrons who cast glances his way, and planted his arm on the counter like he was visiting an old friend.

"So, this is what you do to pay the bills," he said to the guy sitting behind the counter. "You know, I've been wondering about that." Up close, Richie saw that the man he'd glimpsed from across the dojo didn't fit the image he'd built in the weeks since. The gray hair still held a lot of dark and only fine lines scored the corners of his eyes and mouth, belying the impression of the guy being old and the muscled forearms that protruded from the rolled-up sleeves suggested more strength than a typical academic. So, this was Joe Dawson, Mac's Watcher.

Joe glanced up from the computer screen he'd been scowling at. On seeing Richie, his expression of bland politeness sharpened to recognition. "Richie Ryan," he responded, and then his gaze slid past Richie toward the door and the other person he expected to see who wasn't there.

A slight shake of his head and Richie apologized for having met Joe alone. It hadn't been his preferred choice, either. "It's just me."

"Well, 'just me,' what can I do for you? If you're looking for a book, we have something for every taste here." Joe spread his arms wide to take in the tall shelves of books that cut across the floor. "Tell me what your poison is, and I'll point you in the right direction."

Richie dutifully scanned the main room, then leaned back to peer at the second floor and the bottoms of the shelves he could see through the banister railings. There were a lot of books. The smell of ink and old paper filled the store, its scent so much subtler than the bites of gasoline and motor oil he preferred. He let the sweep go on long enough that someone could mistake it for honest consideration before resuming his faux-casual pose. "Actually, I'm here to see you. Thought it was time to get to know the mysterious Joe Dawson."

"Is that right?" Joe stroked his short-cropped whiskers and gave Richie a searching look. With a flash of discomfort, Richie realized that, though Joe might be a mystery to him, the reverse wasn't true. Richie pasted on his best crooked smile and tried to look like he had no motive except curiosity.

With a nod, Joe answered his own question. Reaching under the desk, he pulled out a 'back in ten minutes' sign, turned the key to lock the register, and turned his attention back to Richie. "Why don't you step into my office." He leveraged himself off the stool he was sitting on behind the counter and grabbed a cane that had been leaning against the wall with a strange stiffness, like his knees couldn't bend; his steps made heavy thuds on the hard floor. Mac hadn't mentioned any of this, though he'd mostly been fixated on the fact that someone was following him around and recording his life to give any consideration to sharing details about who that person was.

"So, I'm guessing you're here because of MacLeod," Joe said, as he ushered Richie into the office. "Can I get you a drink? We don't keep food around here, except for the lunches the employees bring so I can't offer you that. Mice and books aren't a good combination." Pulling out the top drawer of the desk, he retrieved a can of Coke. "My secret stash. It's warm, but better than nothing."

"Yeah," Richie said, accepting it. "Thanks." His mouth was dry, and he found himself at a loss for what to say next. He couldn't remember that ever happening before. Hopefully this wasn't some unexpected side-effect of dying. Man, that would really make Immortality a slog.

Joe read the hesitation in Richie's response and drew the wrong conclusion. "Is he all right? I can't follow him out to the island. I thought he'd be safe—"

"He's fine, Dawson. Last I heard, anyway. I mean, the smoke signals were a little smudgy and the breeze could have erased a critical puff or two—" Richie waved a hand, cutting himself off before he could get too excited about rediscovering his fast talking ability. Downplaying his concerns wasn't what he wanted anyway. He'd had a lot of that over the past couple weeks as he dealt with all the store's customers who'd heard the news and wanted to offer their sympathies. And then there was Mac. He had called-once-using a satellite phone—only to find out how the sale of the store was going. Since his lawyer was handling most of it, Richie assured him that he had nothing to worry about, and then cracked a joke about the wisdom of leaving a couple of thieves in charge of all his money. In hindsight, he should have skipped the joke. Mac certainly hadn't been amused, and Richie had ended the call with the feeling that Mac was pissed at him. "He's fine," he said again, willing himself to believe it. "All things considered."

Joe nodded grimly. "Well, then, pull up a seat. You didn't come all the way down here to tell me that. Are you here to check in on us? See what it is we do?"

"I think I have a pretty good idea about that," Richie answered. "A little stalking, a little wire-tapping, some Dumpster diving. I'll bet the CIA could learn a thing or two from you guys." He knew he was being unnecessarily aggressive, especially since he was the one who'd come into Dawson's space. He stared down at the can grasped in his hands. "Sorry. I guess I just wanted to talk." He pulled out the lone desk chair and dropped into it, then popped right back to his feet. The lowness of the seat gave Richie the feeling of being in the interrogation room at the police station all over again. Instead, he cleared a spot on the corner of the desk and perched there. "You can have the chair," he offered, as if it were politeness fueling his actions and not weakness.

"I'll be fine here," Joe said. "So, you want to talk, but not about MacLeod or the Watchers." He studied Richie for a long moment with the attention of someone trying to find Waldo.

Richie knew the view wasn't good. He'd had a lot on his plate and not a lot of energy to think about stuff like getting his laundry done or making sure the food he put in his mouth had any nutritional value. Though he wasn't sure if that mattered anymore. He also hadn't been sleeping well. Besides worry about the store and trying to find a new place to live on no notice, he'd developed a constant nagging fear that he was going to run into one of the many Immortals who had taken to showing up in the city with their very big, very sharp swords.

"So, how about them Cubs? I hear they have a chance at the playoffs this year."

"'M not really a baseball person, Dawson," Richie answered, a slight chuckle escaping despite himself. "There's too much sitting around and waiting in hopes of catching a few seconds of excitement." A look of offense crossed Joe's face, so Richie rushed to mitigate the insult he hadn't meant to make. "Though I guess you guys are used to that." He grimaced, sensing that his foot was only getting stuck further into his mouth. Popping open the Coke, he let the hiss of escaping carbonation give them both something else to focus on for a second. Getting to the point of his visit was harder than he'd expected. A breath, and he forced himself to focus. What was the worst thing that could happen? It wasn't like he could die of embarrassment. "Where you there when Tessa died?" he asked. "Did you see what happened?"

Joe sighed and gave his head a ponderous shake. "I didn't arrive until right before the ambulance did." He rested his weight against the bookshelf behind him and idly traced a finger along the ridges of the books. "We try to catch all the important events. Not just the Challenges. We want the things that are important for humanizing Immortals, too: the people they loved, the contributions they made. The losses they endured." He shook his head again. "Unfortunately, they often have a way of happening when no one expects them. I liked Tessa. She was a classy lady. The world's gonna be a darker place without her in it."

Richie felt the pressure of tears gathering, and squeezed his eyes shut until he got them under control. He'd liked Tessa, too. She'd been—not a mother, not a sister. A little of both, maybe? They'd formed a quick and fast friendship that was deeper than any he'd ever known. "It should've been me, not her," he admitted. Too easily, he visualized the punk yelling at them, waving his gun at them. Richie should have been able to get between the gun and Tessa. He'd known the gun wasn't just a threat. He should have tackled the guy, taken the first bullet, _anything_ —except stand there. "I should've been able to save her."

"Aw, Rich." Joe crossed the small space between them and set his hand on Richie's shoulder. "We all play the what-if game when someone we love dies. There's no sense beating yourself up. Even if you had been there—"

Richie shrugged out of the comforting touch; he didn't deserve it. "That's just it, Dawson. I _was_ there. I was there, and I still couldn't do anything to save her." The room was suddenly too small, too crowded. Heavy books were stacked on the shelves against one wall. A larger hunk of furniture— _an armoire_ , he heard Tessa whisper in his ear—on the other wall was cluttered with weapons and other old things he had no hope of identifying. The desk, also cluttered with papers and a computer, took up most of the floor space. Richie slid off his corner and retreated toward the door. He could walk out of here right now, hop on his bike, and blow the town. It had crossed his mind that Mac's retreat to the island was meant as a hint for Richie to get gone. Mac had told him to "get rid of it. All of it," before handing over the keys to the antique store and apartment. Who's to say he didn't mean for Richie to include himself in that directive? Instead, he threw back his head and chugged down half the Coke, barely tasting it. "I should have done something."

"What do you mean 'you were there'? MacLeod told the police he and Tessa were alone."

"What did you expect him to say? If I'd stuck around, the cops probably would've accused me of being the shooter. They don't exactly like me down at the station, you know." He looked down at this chest, fingers coming up involuntarily to rub the spot over his heart where the second bullet had gone through. "Besides, they would've asked too many questions, like why I had bloody holes in my shirt."

Joe lowered himself into the desk chair with stiff movements, never once taking his eyes off Richie. "Richie, are you telling me you're Immortal?" Richie shrugged, suddenly feeling like he was being congratulated on winning a contest in which he'd cheated. "You died that night, too? My God."

Richie's voice was quieter as he answered, "You would've figured it out eventually. So, now you know."

Joe scrabbled among the papers on the desk and found a pen, which he held up like a microphone. It occurred to Richie that no one had ever walked up to the Watcher before and self-identified as Immortal, and now Richie-loudmouth-Ryan had been the first. Hell, Joe'd probably never talked to another Immortal besides Mac, and here Richie was, practically announcing that he wanted someone to start keeping tabs on him like he thought he'd escaped when he'd aged out of Social Services.

"And MacLeod just left you here? Without any way to defend yourself?" Joe raked his fingers through his hair, looking affronted. "He at least told you the rules?"

"Yeah, I've got all that covered," Richie answered. "Live with an Immortal for a year and you pick up a thing or two. Besides, I've always been fast on my feet. If anyone comes after me, I know how to run." It was reassuring to say, anyway. He hadn't been very fast that night; in fact, he'd been so frightened that his feet had refused to move at all. "I'll be fine until Mac gets back."

Joe gave him a searching looking, eyebrows drawn together. "Well, you're not fine now. At a guess, you've got a helluva case of survivor's guilt."

Richie started at hearing the phrase; he knew what it was, and still never imagined it would apply to him. Back when he was bouncing between foster homes, group homes, and stints in juvie, every kid he knew had spent time with counselors and psychiatrists. They showed off their diagnoses like physical scars and bragged just as loudly about the actions that had resulted in them—except for the diagnoses they believed were correct. Those they only shared in hushed voices, late at night, and only for exchange in kind. Slowly, he uttered his objection: "But, I didn't survive."

"No," Joe agreed. "You did a worse thing: you died and came back. Tessa just died. That's gotta be really eating at you. Man, I shoulda brought the stool in here so we could talk properly, survivor to survivor." He shook his head at his own oversight as Richie frowned at him, not understanding the connection. "Nah, I'm not Immortal. You'd know if I were. I'm only a guy who knows something about knocking on death's door, then running away." He gave a slight shrug. "Metaphorically speaking."

Richie continued to frown; he was being told something important and he didn't know what it was.

Taking pity on him, Joe rapped the pen against the top of his calf. The muted thunk of plastic on plastic rang out, and Richie hung his head. Prosthetics. He should have known when he saw the way Joe walked.

"How'd it happen?"

"Vietnam," Joe answered simply. "Wasn't watching where I was going and stepped somewhere I really shouldn't've. It's a miracle I didn't get shipped home in a body bag." He pursued his lips like he was thinking about saying more, then dismissed it with a rapid tattoo of the pen on the desk. Instead he said, "I was 19."

Richie's mouth fell open; it took him a second to realize and close it. Three words, and the last of the feeling that they were two strangers slipped away. Richie sagged against the door, his grip threatening to release its hold on the can. "Wow," he said. "I mean….wow. That was a pretty traumatic, right? Damn, of course it was." Talking too much and saying the wrong things again, that was him. "Was it hard? To keep going," he managed, embarrassed at asking questions that had such obvious answers. But, that was the part he most wanted to know about, because now that he'd heard it, Richie knew the label was true. He shouldn't have survived, and he did. Tessa had died, and she shouldn't have. It wasn't fair.

"I'm gonna tell you something I didn't figure out until years later," Joe continued, as if he knew exactly what Richie was thinking. "Would've made the whole thing a lot easier if I hadn't learned it the hard way."

"The wisdom of experience, Dawson?" Richie asked wryly. "Don't you think I'm gonna get enough of that when Mac gets back?"

"Duncan will teach you about Immortality," Joe agreed. He paused, and Richie tried not to imagine that he wasn't hearing the space where the words "I hope" should fit in. As thoroughly—and understandably—as Mac had encased himself in his grief, there was always the chance that he wouldn't come back. Not in time to do Richie good, anyway. "What he won't tell you is this: It's OK to mourn."

"For Tessa?" Richie asked, confused. He didn't need permission to do that. In fact, he didn't think anyone could stop him.

Joe let the pen drop, any attempt at taking notes abandoned. "For yourself. For the person you were planning on becoming who died that night."

For a moment, Richie let his eyes drop shut. In the back of his mind, he'd wondered if he was still the same person. Shouldn't becoming Immortal have changed him? Make him better or smarter or…something? He didn't feel different, but maybe that was because he hadn't fully faced what'd happened. "Thanks, Dawson," he said again, even more sincerely. "I will."

"And I need to be getting back to my day job," Joe stated. "Can't leave the front unattended too long or people might get the idea the books are free." Though it wasn't smooth, he stood up with the facility of long practice and moved to open the door for Richie. "Any time you need, you know where to find me." Settling a hand on Richie's shoulder, he gave a fatherly squeeze. "You'll get it figured out, kid. I did."

Dropping the can in the garbage, Richie left, grateful to know that, no matter where Mac was, someone was Watching out for him.


End file.
